Cephalagia
by Fairytale Warrior
Summary: Apparently, headaches are not as universal as Peter has been led to believe. Sample: "He stumbled into something solid as his vision went out faster than a blown light bulb, frantic voices speaking above him barely registering in his throbbing brain." *Rated T for cursing.
1. Headache

_Disclaimer: I don't own GOTG_

* * *

_[13:06- Mon- SY: XXX]_

_[On-board the _Milano]

_[3 weeks after the Guardians of the Galaxy saved the universe.]_

_Throb._

"Then don't fucking touch my stuff, you brainless smurf!" Rocket.

_Throb._

"Don't ever call me 'smurf'." Drax.

_Throb._

"You don't even know what that is!" Rocket.

_Throb. _

"Neither do you, Rocket." Gamora.

_Throb-pulse._

"Oh, I know what it is-" a hiss, "-peanut-brain over here exemplifies every bit of it." Rocket.

_Throb, _wince.

For the past 53 hours, Peter Jason Quill had been suffering an on and off headache; one that was no more pleased than the rest of the crew about the incessant arguing. On occasion his suffering escalated into migraine territory, making even his precious music too painful to listen to. It had been waking him up at night, stealing his appetite, and wearing his patience very thin and he was pretty sure that something was about to snap.

_Throb._

He wasn't an expert with animals- or animal hybrid things- but he was beginning to wonder if maybe Rocket was capable of having a monthly- or weekly- period. He continued to find things to argue about, whether it was that someone/thing had laid a hand on "his" designs, eaten "his" leftovers, or stolen "his" turn to use the showers he was always fussing over something.

Oh, and god forbid if anyone other than Rocket even tried to touch Groot's pot.

_**Throb.**_

It _certainly _didn't help matters when Drax blundered obliviously around the ship, stepping on important gizmos and whoozits and making Peter wince every time. His diet was ravenous, eating through anything he could get his hands on and sometimes making the Starlord wonder if he was possibly capable of eating parts of his _ship. _Worse yet, the bulky male didn't seem to understand the length of his own strength as he constantly destroyed things around the _Milano. _

_**Throb.**_

And then there was Gamora. Sweet, wonderful, beautiful, heartless-murderous-assassin Gamora always seemed to get dragged into the fight _somehow. _More often than not, her attempts to be the peacekeeper backfired and she was drawn into the argument. Every time, not long after she joined the fray, all the weapons would come out, the shouting would escalate, and Peter would turn his attention off of piloting to find the three of them trying to bloody kill each other.

_**Throb. **_

Fingers moving skillfully Peter typed in a set of commands, putting the _Milano _on autopilot. Gritting his teeth the blond leaned back and brought both hands up to gently massage his temples with the index and middle finger of each hand.

Several imposing footsteps neared, a low voice soon followed; "I do not have a peanut for a head."

A deep sigh blew out of his nose and Groot looked up at him from the console his pot had been set on. He had been growing rather rapidly but still needed the security and nutrients he got from his pot. They'd all been steadily waiting for anything to come out of the little sapling's mouth but nothing outside of "ah" and "eh" had escaped him.

"Rocket-" Gamora began warningly.

"No, he's right. He's just a simple-minded fool who's more of a blunder than a baby Mangando!"

_**THROB.**_

With a catastrophically loud _bang _Peter slammed both hands onto the console in front of him, narrowly missing Groot's pot, and stood so abruptly he almost fell over- if it weren't for the console he was leaning into he probably would have. His comrades went momentarily silent but by the time he'd turned around Rocket's mouth was already starting to open. The self-declared Starlord stormed right through a bout of dizziness with hardly anything more than a wobble, yanked the irritating rodent up by the scruff of his neck and snarled in the wake of his protests.

"Oi- hey- what the hell are you doing, asshole?!" the angry raccoon-hybrid-thing spat.

"Locking you in storage," Peter replied darkly, moving past the others with an irritably muttered 'I'll throw you two in there too if you don't shut the fuck up already'. As Rocket threw a fit and growled, clawing aggressively at the flesh of Peter's arm, the blond captain pulled up a round metal hatch on the floor and dropped into it, sliding down the ladder as though it was second nature to do so one-handed. He continued on down the adjoining hall with the raccoon attempting to twist around and bite his hand- having no success of course. Obscenities flew from his tongue in every language known to the stars and if Peter had had the energy he might have been impressed.

As things stood, however, he was very, _very_ far from that.

Reaching his destination the blond typed in the lock-code and let the door slide open with a languid hiss. No sooner than it had done its job did he toss the spiteful rodent and manually slide the otherwise slow contraption shut, leaving a cussing, howling, writing little beast on the other side.

It took hardly a moment for him to re-lock the door and pivot on his heel, heading back the way he'd come. Once again hit by a wave of dizziness- this one much more severe- Peter struck a hand against the wall to steady himself, swallowing a miserable moan as the sound cracked through his skull.

"Peter?" Gamora's voice was a just a tiny bit hesitant, echoing down the corridor.

"Hmm?" He grumbled, Rocket's fists banging against the storage containment door behind him. The human-hybrid pushed off the wall and carried himself along the catwalk towards the ladder, not even bothering to look up at his comrade as he climbed. Shortly after he had hauled himself out of the hole and back onto the main deck Gamora was by his side, a questioning look plastered over her face.

His failing condition must have been _really _obvious because a moment after her confusion turned to concern, Drax piped up; "Peter Quill, what ails you?"

The Terran's shoulders sunk in a heavy sigh as he melted back into the chair nearest the control console. He brought a hand to his head, wiping it across his rugged features as though he could brush his furious headache away.

"Nothing," he muttered, massaging his temples, "I've just got a seriously fucked up headache."

"Head," Drax began hesitantly, trying to make sense of the foreign term, "ache?"

Because his head was down, Peter never saw the blinking monitor in front of him display the words 'medical assessment activating'. From above a small piece of paneling swished to the side, revealing a scanner. Blue light swept over him, garnering his attention and- despite the pain it brought him- he uncovered his eyes and looked up. He grimaced as he realized what Drax had accidentally done, sinking even lower into his chair as he waited for the inevitable.

"Peter, what is this?" he heard Gamora inquire. He didn't need to respond, however, as his ship beat him to it.

"_Medical assessment complete," _it informed the crew, _"Diagnosis for: _Peter Quill_. Age: _26. _Species: _Terran-Spartax hybrid. _Sex: _Male." Peter could feel Gamora slowly drift closer to him, as though the move was subconscious and he kicked his feet up on the console in front of him. "_Diagnosis: Class 7.8 cephalagia . Description: Sharp pain in the region of the head, scalp, or neck. May be a symptom of a more serious disease that requires p-professional medical assistance," _Peter rolled his eyes and regretted it not long after. _"Symptoms include,"_ the computer continued, _"vision changes, sensitivity to sound or light, and nausea." _With a muttered curse the leader of the recently formed Guardians of the Galaxy picked up the controls and unlocked the autopilot. _"Causes of a class 7.8 cephalagia may be due to: stress, head trauma, severe lack of oxygen- d-d-d-d." _At the sudden glitch in the system, Peter stopped for a moment and turned his gaze upwards, looking for sparks or some such sign of damage. He hadn't noticed the increasing concern his comrades were emitting behind him. Not until Gamora put a hand on his shoulder to stop him from picking the controls back up.

"What the-" he began, glancing at the assassin when her grip tightened. She was looking intensely into Peter's eyes, unblinkingly staring at him as though to make a diagnosis of her own.

"_-When untreated, class 7.8 cephalagias often lead to comas, morphalite syndrome, and death." _

The next thing Peter Quill knew he was being hauled up out of his chair by a woman who was _way stronger than she should have been_ and practically dragged off as the glitchy AI continued its confused babbling.

Too fast, toofast, _toofast!_

"Woah-wai-Gam- uuugh," he tried to protest but it was at this precise moment that his cerebellum and frontal lobes collectively decided that this was complete bullshit and it was time to clock out, call it a day and try again tomorrow. He stumbled into something solid as his vision went out faster than a blown light bulb, frantic voices speaking above him barely registering in his throbbing brain. Something was said about a hospital, but that was the last that he knew before his body finally gave out on him.

* * *

_Well._

_If you liked leave me an O. If you hated leave me an X._

_Thanks for reading, see you next chappy!_

_Cheers! _


	2. Migraine

_Oh sweet baby jesus. _40 _follows in less than 24 hours?! *appreciative whistle* Wowzers, people. And 17 reviews too, good god! _

_Forgive me, everyone, for I do not have a beta. Despite my best efforts you will find some errors dotting the story here and there. I'll go back over it as soon as I can but for now, my mind is too fuzzy to properly process anything._

_Thank you for putting up with it thus far. :)_

_Disclaimer: I don't own GOTG_

Peter woke to a, by now, very familiar pain raging through his skull, tearing him apart from the center outwards. He wanted to moan but knew the sound would ricochet through him and make the ache worse. He wanted to move but violent waves of nausea twisted his gut and spun around his head. He wanted to open his eyes but feared the decision would kick the whirling dizziness into a new gear and he would end up heaving right then and there.

So he did the best he could given his situation and simply focused on breathing.

Deep breath in.

…

Deep breath out.

…

Deep breath in.

…

Deep breath out.

Until a swishing sound broke the stillness of whatever room he was in- probably his sleeping quarters given there wasn't anywhere else to haul an unconscious half-Terran on the ship.

Even the sound of the door opening, as quiet as it was, was too loud for his head and he grimaced.

There was the soft sound of little padded feet approaching that took Peter a few moments to place as Rocket's footsteps.

"How's he doing?" the whisper was so uncharacteristic of the brazen gun-totting creature that, even after distinguishing his approach, it took a little longer than it should have to recognize Rocket's voice. And when he had, Peter couldn't help but notice the concern buried in his comrade's undertone.

"His condition has worsened," Gamora replied quietly. Her voice came so suddenly and so closely that Peter almost flinched. As it was he creased his brow, praying to whatever deity that might hear him to sooth this _goddamn migraine. _"Who is piloting?"

There was a pause between them, as though Rocket needed to sit on his response and in the silence the less-than-famous Starlord could feel their eyes boring into him like lasers, making his skin crawl.

"It's on autopilot right now," came the eventual response, "Drax is watching too." A brief pause, then; "It'll take at least 23 hours to reach a professional hospital on Dedaria but for now I've managed to find a guy on Macabūūre who's willing to connect over live video to help this dumb bastard out. The price isn't too bad either."

And that was where Peter drew the line.

Sucking in a deep breath and mentally preparing himself he offered his two-cents on the matter his comrades were discussing.

"Who the hell let Rocket out of time-out?" he asked at full-volume, smirking despite the pain the action caused him. His voice was like a physical blow, slamming into the two subdued Guardians and blaring around the previously quiet room like a bomb had gone off.

Gamora immediately responded with an exuberant, "Peter?!" slapping her palms on his arm and shoulder as though afraid he might disintegrate.

"Gaaaah," he moaned with protest, pained both by the volume of her voice and her death-grip on his body. Scrunching up his face he continued quickly, "let's go back to whispering, whispering is good."

"Apologies." He listened as Gamora sat down again, cheap leather squelching beneath her.

Still dizzy he lifted his hands to his face and pressed clammy palms into his eye sockets, hoping that a bit of wishful rubbing might persuade his cerebellum to stop spinning and the rest of his head to stop throbbing. "How much money are you trying to spend on treating something as simple as a headache, anyway?"

"Hah," Rocket retorted at a volume just a decibel above a whisper, ignoring his question, "'time-out' he says. Which one of us has to have a babysitter, again?" Peter found himself unable to determine if his comrade was genuinely mad, concerned, or just being as snide as always.

Nevertheless he gave a light chuckle, daring to open one eye and find his comrades. Gamora was, of course, posted at his side in an old run-down chair he'd bought for a cheap price but lost somewhere on the ship. She wore an expression of open concern matted with a weird determination Peter struggled to recognize. Beside her he could make out their fuzzy companion in the dim lighting, his whiskers bent out of shape, fur bedraggled, and red eyes eerily reflecting what little light there was to illuminate the room. It was difficult to see any of this at first as the world split into 3's and 4's, each overlapping image tilting this way and that to give the perception of having 4 Gamoras all looking down at him worriedly. After a moment or so, however, his distorting vision shifted back into something he could actually comprehend and, feeling victorious for some reason, he smiled winningly.

"Morn'n," he joked.

In response, Gamora's face twisted into confusion, "Peter, it is 22:43. "Morning" is still hours away."

Jamming his elbows into the mattress Peter heaved himself back into a semi-sitting position. He grabbed his single pillow and stuffed it behind him, leaning into it and squeezing his eyes shut when the world once again decided to do flips and his migraine reminded him that it wasn't going anywhere with a particularly aggressive crescendo.

"Relax," the blond waved her concern away, bringing a hand up to massage his right temple, "I know it might seem like it but I definitely do not have brain damage."

"Riiiight."

"_You,_" he pointed at Rocket, "have yet to answer my question."

Peter caught a suspicious glint flash through the raccoon's eyes and inwardly groaned in distress; he was _not _in the mood for mind games.

"What question was that again?"

"Rocket."

"No really. I forgot."

"_Rocket." _

"What?"

Bringing his other arm out from under him he sank into the pillow behind him and used his now free hand to massage his left temple, "just answer the question."

There was a brief pause that he assumed was filled with a glance between the two. Gamora must have given a threatening glare or something as Rocket finally just shrugged and gave up the information that Peter wanted to hear.

"25,000 units."

And cue the simultaneous reaction from both humanoid figures;

"_What!_" Peter bolted up so fast he would have fallen out of bed if it hadn't been for Gamora's steadying hands.

"Woah, easy! It's not _that _much!" Rocket protested, bringing both paws up in a defensive gesture.

"Rocket, that is 95% of our food money," Peter retaliated, holding his head as though worried it would fall apart.

"And how would we be able to pay for professional treatment with what we had left? Even if we could, we wouldn't have enough to pay for gas or food- we'd be grounded until we found another job," Gamora reasoned, ignoring her leader's objection to professional treatment. "It's not an offer, Peter," she snapped at him.

Clearly offended Rocket puffed out his fur and leapt onto the bed. Now at eye-level with the two of them he pulled back his ears and snarled, "I had a plan!"

It was at this point that Peter's headache decided it had had enough of all the shouting and added its own protests. A sharp, blinding ache pierced his tender brain matter and a startled cry of pain escaped him before he could swallow it. Gamora's grip on his shoulders tightened and she called his name but Peter was hardly listening. His head was bowed, hands pressed into either side of his skull, and would have been swaying had she not been holding him steady.

He'd had some pretty gnarly headaches in his time and Yondu could attest to that, but he was truly beginning to wonder if he really didn't need proper medical attention at this point.

With bile trying to crawl up his throat, Peter forced his eyes open- blearily noticing that Rocket had perked up, that concern glittered in his beady eyes- and squinted at his worried comrades. "C'mon, it's just a migraine. Give it a day and it'll be gone. I just need to sleep it off."

It didn't take a genius to see neither of his friends were convinced.

"I may not be as familiar with these 'my-grains' and 'head-aches' as I need to be to make a proper medical deduction but I do think we all know this is much more severe than that," Gamora told him.

Peter didn't have the energy to argue with her as he pulled away, slumping into his pillows with clenched teeth, "Alright, fine. At least give me a day to recover. If I'm not better by the time we hit Dedaria then you can do whatever you want, deal?"

Several worrisome heartbeats of silence answered him.

Finally, Rocket huffed and launched himself off the bed, storming towards the door with a grumbled, "suit yourself."

"I will also respect your decision," his remaining friend assured him.

Head still throbbing, eyes stinging with exhaustion, and bile clogging his throat, Peter smiled gratefully. He wanted to ask her if she was going to sit at his bedside _all day_, to question her hobbies and maybe use his "ailment" to glean a little more information out of the elusive assassin of his crew but found, distressingly, that he'd rather just close his eyes and take a nap instead.

Yet, as time continued to turn, he discovered himself at odds with a very irritatingly familiar problem.

His headache was barring him from the sleep he so greatly wanted.

Several minutes passed with him grimacing and wriggling, unsuccessfully trying to ignore his pain before Gamora intervened.

He twitched with surprise as the pads of her fingers found his temples, eyelids fluttering open to see her blurred figure leaning over him.

The blond opened his mouth to ask her what she was doing but before he could even get the first syllable out she answered.

"This helps you, yes?" she asked softly, moving her fingers in a circular motion. Peter could only close his eyes and hum.

It felt _good_.

Like it was a hidden skill her deft fingers found the throbbing veins he'd been trying to press into all this time and muffled the constant throbbing as easily as she could have cut his head off. She used just the right amount of pressure on both sides and moved like a professional. A relieved sigh escaped him, whispering calmly past his lips and before he was aware of what was happening his consciousness gently left him.

_And then chapter 2 happened. _

_Same as before, leave me an O if you liked, leave me an X if you didn't. _

_Cheers, friends! _


	3. Bedside

_Thanks everyone for taking the time to read this. I hope all of you have been enjoying the story as much as I am writing it. :)_

_Disclaimer: I do not own GOTG_

* * *

The room was lit with a soft, green luminesce that poured up and down the walls, draped over the simple sheets, and cast the pale face with a sickly glow. The shadows on Peter only made his tense expression more obvious, highlighting the pain he continued to suffer even in sleep.

As Gamora was the quietest of the three available guardians- as well as the most collected, experienced, and fastest- she was the best suited to keep an eye on their downed leader.

And 'keep an eye on him' she had.

For the past 16 hours.

It was now 14:43 and Peter had woken a total of 12 times over the course of this test of patience. Unlike her half-Terran comrade, Gamora had less need to sleep and so was capable of staying by his side to surprise him every time his eyes fluttered open.

The second time Peter woke she had been relieved, convinced that he was recovering because of it.

"_You're still here?" _he'd asked her.

"_Should I not be?" _she'd replied.

He'd looked a little sheepish and shrugged, _"Well, I'd assume that you would have better things to do than watch me sleep. It's honestly kinda creepier than I would have expected."_

"_But you are not sleeping now," _Gamora had retaliated with a half-smile, _"and so it is no longer creepy."_

"_That's not quite how that works but ok," _he'd smiled back. She'd been worried then, touched by the softest tendrils of anxiety at the time. But her disquiet was soothed by their familiar banter.

Uncharacteristically, she'd let herself relax a little.

But that was a mistake; Gamora knew well the ability her leader had to twist a complicated situation into something simple.

Together they'd talked until the assassin-turned-nurse-maid insisted he return to sleeping, urging him to rest and recover despite his protests. She didn't like how glazed his eyes looked, how his gaze seemed to drift away from her without Peter being aware of it until he blinked and set it back on her. It wasn't until she threatened to hit a pressure point that he submitted and tried to rest.

But by the seventh time Gamora knew better than to be relieved about her comrade's awakenings. Each and every time his eyes peeled open he looked more and more tired than before. Each time he tried to go back to sleep it took a little more effort, a little more energy. It was clear to her that the struggle it took to be upbeat and all around Peter-ish each time he woke had begun to wear her leader thin. He spoke less, slept less, and smiled less.

So by the twelfth time he woke she was putting together a plan like a Terran would fit puzzle pieces together. He turned his head, gave her a thin smile, and then tried to get back to sleep again while the pondering assassin simply sat there and waited. It was almost a half an hour before Peter's breathing evened out and he fell into another restless slumber.

Prepared, Gamora leaned forward and watched his face carefully, searching for signs of acute distress. It didn't take long before she found what she was looking for and the moment that Peter's expression tightened her green hands shot forward.

As she had done before she pressed her fingers into the sides of his skull and moved them in a circular motion. For several moments Peter didn't react and Gamora feared that her plan had ended with failure. Then his expression relaxed and he even craned his head back a little with a tiny, relieved smile on his face. Like the gesture was a contagion she found herself smiling along with him.

And so, for an hour, she remained like that. Fending off the migraine with a skill she hadn't realized would ever be so medically capable. Now though, moments after Peter had subconsciously moved away from her with a pained grunt, she was once again stuck at a standstill. Why had the gesture, one that seemed to cause him such delight, suddenly caused him pain? How did this confusing half-Terran body function?

Biting her lip Gamora continued to agonize over her leader, knowing that they were headed towards those who could help him and yet wanting to help him herself.

Like a familiar map she watched as the skin on Peter's face folded and creased, his brow coming together, eyes scrunching shut, and jaw clamping down tightly. Knowing what was soon to follow Gamora couldn't help herself and moved to massage his temples yet again. This time it seemed to help but the second she thought Peter no longer needed it she stopped.

Aaaand soon after he was threatening to wake up again.

A huff escaped her as she sat back, waiting for the inevitable.

What a frustrating situation this had become.

* * *

He needed some green tea.

Like. Stat.

Give it to him via an IV, Peter didn't care.

He genuinely _needed_ it.

He was so sure that a good night's rest, a full meal, and a few hours of silence would be all he needed to get away from this goddamned nightmare. Yet in the life of an outlaw/hero/guardian relaxation was as rare as fresh cheddar cheese on Knowhere.

Peter _hated_ headaches, had a hard time imagining that anyone would ever like them. The first time he got one Yondu had been convinced he was contagious and locked him in his room/cell for a day with no contact whatsoever. Of course, after a few hours the harmless ache fled and he fell asleep listening to his mother's tunes.

Any Terran knew that a headache with the lifestyle that Peter had, without rest, food, water, or any kind of painkiller was a bad recipe. Yet, what could he do that he hadn't already tried? He couldn't stomach anything but water, he only got 23 minutes of sleep- tops- between attacks, and he was fairly certain that he was going batshit crazy right now.

Guh.

Why was the world still spinning? He wasn't even on a planet so why the fuck?

Tired and borderline irritable, Peter opened his eyes and forced himself into a sitting position.

"Peter?" Gamora questioned, surprising him when she set her hands on his shoulders. Why was she still here?

"Hold on," he answered, pulling her hands off his shoulders and getting to unsteady, shaky feet, "I'm going to go scavenge for painkillers."

"Peter you need to lie still-" she argued.

Like a petulant child he cut her off with a defiant, "nope!" and hobbled towards the door.

Oh, door_s_. Plural. There were like five of them now.

Groaning he reached out to set a hand against the wall as he felt the ship begin to tilt out from under his feet. Rather than cold, impersonal metal, however, his hand met warm flesh. He glanced over to see Gamora duck under his arm, draping it across her shoulders and setting him straight.

"Then at least let me help you, you petulant fool," she murmured.

Suddenly feeling a little awkward about the situation Peter replied, "Oh, well okay, I guess." He tried to tell himself that he was humoring her, that he didn't really need any help. And yet, it became starkly apparent to him that if Gamora was not beside him, keeping him steady, then he'd be on the floor by now.

The door(s) swished open automatically, long before Peter could brace himself, and like a flash bang he was assaulted by the lights from the hall. A miserable groan heaved out of him, bending him over somewhat as he covered his face with a free hand. Patiently, Gamora waited for him to recover.

"You're doing this to yourself, you know," she told him.

A hand shading his eyes, Peter argued, "It's not as though you'd know where to look."

His friend huffed but did not say anything further. When he felt ready the blond resumed his efforts, trying to ignore how furiously his head was pounding now, trying to ignore the static in his ears and the over-bright lights.

Seven steps into the hall Peter plunged onto Gamora, feeling like a carpet had been aggressively yanked out from under his feet. Their heads came dangerously close to knocking together and there was a screeching sound down the hull of the ship that made him shiver with pain.

"Oh damn," Peter groaned, "tell me that wasn't just me."

Gamora's head whipped this way and that too fast for him to keep up, "it wasn't just you." He felt her hands under his arms, carefully lowering him to the ground. His shoulders touched the wall a little harsher than she probably had intended but Peter was a little too caught up in his head to notice. The ship was shuddering, tilting, spinning, looping this way and that so harshly he felt that bile from earlier rise into his throat.

"Gam-" he began but choked, slapping a hand over his mouth and forcing himself to push the vomit in his throat back from where it came. He reached for her, wanting to steady himself because this wall sure as hell wasn't helping him. Briefly, her hand grasped his.

"Stay here," she instructed, "I'm going up-top to see what's happening." Then, before Peter could even attempt to croak she stood, whirled around, and was gone.

It felt, to Peter, very much like his head was a moment away from cracking like an egg and it took every ounce of willpower not to curl up into a ball. His body was sliding to the side before he was aware of it and with one last _thunk_ he spiraled into oblivion.

* * *

_Well, shit, Peter. _

_So guys, I can't decide. How much whump do you want? _

_Edit: Seems more people want life-or-death whump but I think I'm going to stir some seriousness with comedy- as I'd originally intended. I have added in this snippet from Peter's POV based on the answers people gave me earlier. I hope it works. _

_Cheers!_


	4. Thrusters

_Wait, when did I get to 71 reviews? Wow guys, thanks so much. I'm glad that people have been enjoying this story. :)_

_Disclaimer: I don't own GOTG_

* * *

"Our _damn _thrusters are down!" Rocket cried, slamming a fist onto the dash in his fury.

"What?!" Gamora demanded.

"He said-" Drax began to explain.

Naturally Gamora filled in Peter's position for him and snapped, "It was rhetorical." Confused, the destroyer cocked his head to the side but his comrade's attention had already moved back to the closest thing they had to a mechanic.

"What happened to them?" She demanded, walking briskly to his side. She set both hands on the console and leaned down to get a better look at the meters and gauges, "We're not out of fuel."

Rocket's reply was as quick as his paws, speedily typing in commands and swiping across the holo-screen to access different statistics. As Drax lumbered up beside Gamora to get a better view, their smaller comrade brought out a schematic of said troublesome engines and scanned them.

Whiskers twitching he let his paws hover over the holographic keypad, thoughts rolling through his mind. Drax looked between the diagram and Rocket but found neither source gave him the explanations he desired. So he stole a glance at Gamora who was also staring intently at the screen. Terribly confused and needing to be filled in he, as a last resort, cast his attention to Groot. From his position on the other side of the room, beside the box-of-music, the little sapling remained totally inert. Upon further examination he found the Little One's eyes were shut tight in restful sleep.

Sometimes, on rare, carefree occasions, when he was near slumber, Drax might admit to seeing this small creature not unlike his daughter in her younger days. The days before she decided to stray from his side. The days when things in his life were well. Innocent, bygone, wonderful days reflected in the celestial's wide eyes.

"-you got it Drax?" Rocket's voice broke his thoughts and the infamous destroyer turned.

"No, I wasn't listening," he replied honestly.

In a little fit, the raccoon clawed at his face and snarled. It was almost amusing to watch as the cyberneticly enhanced being puffed out his fur, leapt from the console and strode away.

"Just follow me already," he barked over his shoulder. Blinking slowly, Drax shared a look with Gamora before turning to do as he was told. "Hurry up, ya big ol' oaf!" Rocket's voice echoed down the corridor.

"I am on my way, rodent."

Rocket's voice burst out in the distance with an offended, "Gah!"

Meanwhile Gamora rolled her eyes and hoped the two would stay off each other's throats while they fixed the pumps and fuel jets. With a sigh she returned her attention to the schematics that Rocket had shown her, the combustion chambers and the liquid propellants highlighted with red and winking at her.

They needed to get this cleaned up quickly and take Peter to a hospital.

_Hurry up, _she thought anxiously.

* * *

Peter wasn't too terribly surprised to find himself waking up on the floor with a crick in his neck and an oh-so-familiar drum in his head. Cold, indifferent metal lay beneath his fingertips. An ache in his shoulder reminded him that it had cushioned his fall and the silence enclosing him flittered between atypical creaks and groans.

"Guuuuhhh," he groaned, slapping a palm on the metal paneling in front of him and attempting to heave himself up. Nausea rippled through him and the ship absolutely _insisted _on spinning around him. With an undignified 'oomph' his arm gave out and he smacked his chin into the walkway. "Oh bloody hell, are you kidding me?" He cursed whatever gods, deities, or fate-twisting entities were out there for putting him in this damned situation and marinated in his own misery for several pitiful moments with his chin jutting out.

After a minute or so he tried again with a little more success. By the time he was upright against the wall he was breathing deeply and desperately holding his stomach. Pinpricks of sweat touched his face and blue eyes were squeezed shut. It was as though his head was pressured, blood pounding through his ears, roaring furiously.

For several heartbeats that sound was all he could hear, the pressure in his head was all that mattered, and the state of his ship went to the back of his mind. When it passed and he was left sitting there like a useless fool seven steps away from his room it occurred to him that he wasn't on his feet yet.

Grunting, he reached out and grabbed the wall with his right hand, pushing against the floor with his other. Thrusting his legs out beneath him he began to lift himself and all was relatively well for a moment before his nausea became more than he could handle. Stumbling to the side he heaved violently, retching all over the black metal a gooey, chunky, milky mess of stomach acid and half-digested food.

"God," he panted furiously, "Damnit."

He felt like he was going to pass out again.

* * *

"Goddamnit," Rocket cursed and jammed his fingers into the little cranny, fiddling with the oxidizer tank valve and cursing the failing igniter and frustrating pumps like a drunken sailor. Outside, Drax could hear his furry comrade but could not make out what he was saying. He'd mostly been used for heavy lifting, tearing up parts of paneling that Rocket couldn't get around and making sure that he was ready to hit the kill switch in case the engine decided; 'oopse! It's time to get back to work.'

With a welding torch in one paw and a protective mask draped over his face Rocket began his work, praying that the oxygen and hydrogen were sealed tightly.

"Need to update this system," he grumbled as he began working on the propellant pumps, "don't even need this unreliable junk, just propel the fuel through the valves with gas pressure." The Milano was great, unlike a lot of _really _outdated junk machines out there that he had discovered. So, while he might loath to admit it, Rocket was kind of fond of the ship. The engine functioned on certain gases energized by varying levels of electricity but the thruster rockets- like the one he was working on- were a little sore. They functioned too much like Terran machines and that irritated the crap out of him.

The fuel tank was held near the tip of the rocket and a valve attached to it ran down the inside of the thruster where it connected to another valve. This was attached to an oxidizer tank. There was a spare pump held in between them to keep the fuel and the oxidizer from coming together too early while two other pumps placed in each valve helped to propel the liquids through their respective spigots and into the combustion chamber.

Rocket had insisted again and again; "Change out those damn thrusters you shit-eating dipstick, they're pathetic! Get some gas-fuel rockets- these liquid-fuel rockets are going to fail and you know it!" But Peter always said the same thing.

"As long as it comes straight out of your pocket, Rocket, I don't care. But it sure as hell isn't coming out of mine. Besides, we're doing just fine!"

A grimace made his whiskers twitch against the mask and his red eyes narrowed, heated gas blowing out the torch and welding the little fan on the side of the pump back in place. An image of Peter's pale face in the almost-darkness, pinched with pain and little pricks of sweat echoed in his mind. Before he could stop himself he pictured in his mind's eye the same face completely devoid of color, shining with a layer of sweat, and totally, completely, dreadfully lax.

He remembered; _[class 7.8 cephalagias often lead to; comas, morphalite syndrome, and death.]_

A snarl curled Rocket's lip.

"_Damnit, Pete." _

* * *

_Hope you liked it. [For the record, I know next to nothing about rockets. Let me know if I screwed up.]_

_Cheers!_


	5. Ravage

_Disclaimer: I don't own GOTG_

* * *

[_There was something that an assassin who had been working in her field developed after many years. Bearing the weight of watching each target fall personally, looking them in the eye and observing as the life drained out of them; delivering their message, their job, quickly, cleanly, soundlessly._

_Everything right down to her breathing was silent as she hid in the rafters, watching for her prey to pass below. Down the street a music box was playing, its soft tune eerie as it echoed through the night's smog. Like a ghost crying in the night, begging to pass it's misery unto others, it sang its unsettling tune. To anyone else it would have been lonely, unnerving. But to her, it was just another distraction to be ignored. _

_The soft alien lullaby continued its song into the night, heralding something so very unlike its tune._

_As the woman saw her stubby target come out from around the corner, she could _feel _it in the air. A hole in his flapping coat tails, green ears twitching, boots clomping loudly down the corridor he stumbled around so drunkenly unaware of it. It was almost tangible in those moments; a scent, a taste, a texture, an _essence. _Goosebumps rose along the back of her neck._

_The lady in black was here._

_But not the one his father had fallen in love with. _

_Death herself, in her truest form, swirled in the air with pieces of her dress melding into the smog. She danced to the lullaby, waiting for Gamora to make her move. _

_Being an impersonal assassin the woman did not hesitate, did not become disturbed by the ever faint sense she had begun developing. _

_One moment her target was wobbling down the street bubbling on to no-one about his wife and daughter. The next his top hat was rolling away right along with his head._]

Gamora sighed, the sound seeming far too loud in the silence of the control deck. The monitors hummed softly and Groot was fast asleep behind her. Rocket and Drax had been out with the thrusters for almost fifteen minutes now, leaving her behind to monitor their progress.

"_Alright," _Rocket's voice came out the speakers so suddenly she was almost caught off guard, _"How does thruster 3 look, Gamora?" _

She leaned forward to scan the diagram, nodding to herself when she saw the thruster turn from red to green and pressed down on a button before giving her reply.

"It's good, Rocket," she said quickly, "hurry and move on to the next." It wasn't terribly often that Gamora was so struck with anxiety that she let it take her words out of her mouth with such haste. But, with Goosebumps rising on the back of her neck all she could focus on was Peter sitting alone in that hall, waiting for her to get back.

Alone. Surrounded by too-bright-lights and his sickness, totally unable to defend himself against the clutches of death-

Senses rising, fear taking her heart, Gamora's hands shot forward and pressed down on the 'speak' button, "Rocket, I am going to go check on Peter."

"_Wait, why-" _But Gamora wasn't listening, too busy racing through the control room to the ladder at the end. She was so unfamiliar with this sort of thing that she wasn't entirely sure how to handle it. She had not felt this way for so long and the last time she had, the last time she had feared death, had been the day her family died. A small, tiny,_ miniscule_ part of her thought she might be reacting irrationally, that this response had been spurred by building stress. But of course, that flew over her head.

A much louder part of her was screaming. _Why? Why did you leave him alone, you _fool! _Is death the only thing that you know?!_

She slid down the ladder rungs so fast her hands stung but she was hardly concerned with that. Boots thudding against the catwalk she hurried through the hall towards Peter's room. In her distress she came across the still, dark, slumped figure of her leader and immediately perceived the worst.

"Peter!" she cried, her voice filled with uncharacteristic panic, "Peter, Peter!" In half a second she was beside him, hardly noticing the vomit at his side.

He wasn't moving.

He wasn't _moving. _

He didn't turn and look up at her with this dumb dopey look.

He didn't tease her or smile or say; _"well gee, didn't know you needed me so badly!"_

_He wasn't moving!_

Frantic, she pulled him away from the wall with all sorts of emergency medical procedures she knew hardly anything about running through her mind. The assassin, the murderous, impenetrable, killing-machine, rolled him onto his back and wished terribly in those moments that she had learned more than how to destroy someone.

"Peter," she said again, grabbing his face in her hands, "can you hear me?" _Come on, what kind of vital signs did a half-Terran have? Think, __**think! **_

Without pause she released him, leaning down to press her ear against his chest.

She waited.

She waited until it began to feel like the blood rushing in her ears was too loud to hear anything else.

And she waited some more.

And she-

_Thump-thump._

What was that?

…

Was that-

_Thump-thump._

A sigh so dramatic she visibly deflated took over her, arms and hands shaking, a ringing in her ears. She didn't move away from his chest, however, wanting to hear that sound again; the sound of that organ beating.

_Thump-thump. _

_Whoosh_.

Her head rose with his chest as a breath of air passed into his body. She was sorely unaware of how humans worked but, from what little she did know, these two sounds were _very _good news.

Peter was fine. He hadn't gone anywhere and she'd freaked out so badly over a sensation only felt for a moment that she was shaking.

Oh, yeah, definitely the _strongest woman in the galaxy. _What the hell happened to "calm and collected"?

Maybe she needed time to sleep too…

Mortified and more than a little agitated Gamora had to clench her fists to keep herself from smacking Peter. She didn't care what anyone said, this was totally his fault.

"D'ast," she cursed and sat back, panting a little. "What the hell are you smiling about, you Galek?" She pretended not to notice the frown on his face. She pretended, only for a moment of terribly uncharacteristic weakness, that he wasn't as comatose as he appeared.

That said she draped his arm around her shoulder and hauled them both to their feet from where she half carried half dragged him back to bed.

_Only a few more hours,_ she promised herself, _only a little more time and he'll be in professional hands, recovering._

_And _then _I can slap him. _

* * *

_[3 hours later]_

Yondu wasn't a sympathizer. He wasn't merciful, loving, kind, or parental in any way shape or form.

Yet, there was something, some kind of Terran ability that Peter Jason Quill was capable of that drew a semblance of these things out of him. When he saw that old troll doll in the capsule he'd surprised himself by not feeling any anger at all. He hadn't felt disappointed. He hadn't even felt like ordering his men to turn the ship around and go back after him.

No, he'd felt proud- of _all _things.

He'd seen that doll with the fluffy, plastic orange hair and the dumb smile and had thought, grinning, _hell, that's my boy. _

Closing the capsule he'd allowed his men to carry on with their mayhem. The night after the fanatic partying he'd used a special kind of sealing glue he'd picked up on a job way back. The impenetrable, invisible, _holy-fuck-how-is-this-possible _kind of stuff that broke you and any machines you might use to try and pry it off. With a special laser he'd finished the job, ensuring that the glue was as invisible as it was impenetrable.

Hours later he made the deal, got his money, and carried on his merry way. Since then he'd only thought of Peter in passing- which was really, hardly at all. Even after all this time he wasn't particularly mad at the boy he'd raised for his little trick. He got his money so whatever, right?

Why then, with such indifference playing through him, was he so pleased to see the familiar _Milano _hovering quietly in space before his own rust-bucket outlaw-toting ship? They were on their way to Korbin to pick up a package from a dealer Yondu was quite fond of but it wasn't like he was on a tight schedule. Why not pay a quick visit?

"Sir, a ship has come up on-" one of his less-useful men began to inform him.

The menacing smile on his face faded and he delivered a satisfying smack to the back of the grunt's head, barking, "I see that, yew idiot. Yew don't need to tell me every time we pass some sort of junk," with a huff he leaned back on the balls of his feet and continued, "Bring us up along them, starboard."

"Yes sir!"

As his men cast their direction towards the ship he began to make out a few familiar shapes along the side. One was small, the other quite very large. The two figures seemed to recognize their ship almost immediately and without any hesitation returned to the confines of their own.

Yondu wasn't a fool, he knew a repair stop when he saw one.

The smile on his face broadened.

The material of his coat shifted as he leaned forward and pressed a small blue button on the control panel above. As the signal connected he let his mind run with thoughts of stealing Peter's Walkman. Just because he wasn't _actually_ mad didn't mean he had to be _nice _to the boy. He had an image to keep up- even if was only Peter and his crew that- so far- knew the truth about the infinity stone.

Just as he was thinking Quill was going to actually try and ignore him, their communication wavelengths connected. He sobered just before the _Milano_'s comm. deck flickered to life on the screen in front of him, revealing two familiar figures.

"Well, well, well," he beamed at the raccoon and- what was his name? Pax the Destroyer?

"_I hope you're here for an ass-kicking, Yondu, cuz' I don't have anything else for sale here," _snarled the rat-raccoon-vermin-thing.

"How about I cut ya a deal, vermin," he began, smiling inwardly at the way the pet's fur bristled and knowing without a shadow of doubt that he had the upper hand, "How about yew go an' get my boy Peter before I decide to blow a hole in yar ship."

"_What business have you with him?" _spoke Pax before the rodent could snarl a reply.

Yondu lifted his head a little in a show of defiance, "It ain't any business of yewrs."

"_You scum aren't about to lay a hand on him," _snarled Furball.

The Centaurian feigned surprise. As though unable to decide for himself he glanced around at the other Ravagers he had on deck with him. "Well girls," he asked, "yew think I ain't gonna lay a hand on our boy Pete?" In return his crew burst into howls, various foul comments like 'he gunna tear you lot apart, vermin' and 'who made ya so big, pet?!' found in the mix.

That was when he noticed the raccoon fiddling with the controls, paws a blur on the keypad.

"_Oh, you think we're unarmed, do you?" _

* * *

_People wanted Yondu. I wanted Yondu. So Yondu happened._

_Guys, this thing is longer than I'd intended it to be. [Maybe 2 more chapters left.]_

_Same deal, leave me an O if ya liked, leave me an X if ya didn't. You can do this for the rest of the upcoming chapters too._

_Cheers!_


	6. Home Invasion

_For those who didn't notice the edit in the last chapter, Yondu arrives three hours after Gamora took Peter to bed. _

_Disclaimer: I don't own GOTG_

* * *

It was quiet, nice and tranquil.

There was no shouting.

There was no fighting.

There was no hissing, growling, or snarling of any kind.

Just bliss.

Wonderful, glorious, _painless-_

_Throb. _

Goddamnit.

Peter sighed but didn't let himself get angry. While his migraine might have only dropped to a headache, he honestly felt much better than he had before. His nausea had dissipated and his head was no longer spinning. Well, mostly, what he perceived as tilting probably just meant that the ship was moving again.

Stretching himself out beneath the sheets he allowed a satisfied smile to pop onto his face, strengthened by each healthy snap his bones gave. He wasn't sure how long he had slept for but it was certainly the best undisturbed rest he'd had for a _long _time.

The life of an Outlaw-turned-hero wasn't easy, and it certainly wasn't stress less. With such a loud, dysfunctional crew it shouldn't have been all that surprising to get headaches of such a caliber every so often. And, as much as he wanted to soak in delusions, he knew that the migraine would come back sooner or later.

Burying his head a little deeper into his pillow Peter allowed himself a deeply satisfied sigh, settling further into his whispering nest of sheets. He was intent on catching a little more rest- you know, while he could- when a horrible _bang _announced the ship's newest problem. It jerked so badly he was almost thrown completely out of bed.

_"Drammat!" _a familiar voice echoed down through the ship.

Startled, his eyes flew open and his fists tightened around the blankets. A moment later he relaxed, realizing what was going on.

Someone was fighting.

Again.

Irritation swelled within him and he promised himself that if he found Rocket had started something again he was going to shave the fuzzy creature bald.

Too exhausted to really act pissed off, particularly without having seen the situation first hand, he pushed himself up out of bed. Someone must have moved him from the hall, probably Drax or Gamora and he took a brief moment to appreciate the effort. Then he turned to the door, ignoring the stars that danced across his vision and the way his feet momentarily stumbled across a tilting floor.

As he was caught in a yawn the door swished open and he stepped, squinting, into the hall for the second time that day.

_Is it even still day? _He wondered, padding down the hall on bare feet. The metal was warm beneath his toes- _what the hell was Rocket doing, using their guns so much that the floor heated up?!- and_ the blond found himself wondering if the argument his crew was having couldn't wait a little. It was as his fingers wrapped around the ladder rungs that he decided; _fuck it. They can last a few minutes. _

That thought processed, he let go and changed directions, moving past the ladder to the communications room. The _Milano _wasn't big enough to have a full sized kitchen, but it did have a little corner tucked away here with a few of the barest essentials.

Bare essentials like coffee. Tea, he knew, would be better for this but out in this Galaxy it was much more expensive than he felt was worth. Besides, he liked the taste of coffee better anyway- even if it was cheaper than dirt.

Reaching the very end of the hall and turning the corner he was wondering what kind of edible material Drax may have left for the rest of them when he heard the shouting.

Ah. So they weren't on the main deck.

_Throb._

Moments like this made Peter honestly feel as though some higher power was out to get him.

He just couldn't get a break no matter what he tried.

_Throb._

The angry voices were coming from inside the communications room.

For a moment of fleeting tranquility, Peter simply stood outside the door, spending what he supposed would be his last few moments with only a light throbbing to suffer. Then he bucked up, pulled his shoulders back and raised his head. One last sigh and he opened the door.

And he promptly came face to face with one of the last beings he would have wanted to see right now.

"_Now, there, ya see? That wasn't too hard!" _the old Centaurian said, waving a hand in Peter's direction.

"Peter!" Gamora hissed from in front of the holo-screen, "What are you doing?"

"What the hell are you doing out of bed, ya D'astard?" Rocket barked at him not a second later. Drax looked as though he wanted to say something as well but, surprisingly, kept to himself. He must of figured it'd be useless attempting to talk to Peter with that look on his face.

Meanwhile, Quill's head took a moment to try and piece together what was happening before bailing out and refocusing on the task he'd originally set himself on.

"Coffee," he stated simply before moving towards the kitchenette off to the side. Like a ship on autopilot he opened one of the upper cabinets and plucked the bag, and a mug, off the shelf.

"Cof- _What?!_"

"_Yar friends were a little hesitant to go get yew for me," _Yondu rasped a little too pleasantly. Peter didn't stop to look over at the creature he'd been raised by, though. A yawn broke through his stoic-faced barrier as he reached for a pot. _"Ya're not sick wit something, are ya?"_

He chose not to acknowledge the menacing way those particular words sounded coming out of the Centaurian's mouth. Instead he filled the pot with water and set it on the stove to boil. Nice thing about advanced alien technology is that he didn't have to wait ten minutes for the water to get hot.

"_We're reaching the end of negotiations, son," _Yondu continued, _"I suggest yew help your crew make a decision before we storm yewr ship."_

'Negotiations'? When the hell was that blue-bastard ever willing to negotiate anything with the likes of him? It had always been 'do or don't' with that guy.

"This was never a discussion to begin with," Gamora spat irritably, refusing to back down despite being so vulnerable. She knew they were outnumbered, outgunned, and, with Peter more or less out for the count, outwitted too. Yondu Udonta was sly and full of tricks, she knew she couldn't trust him but if he really wanted to get aboard their ship he could quite easily.

The water on the stove had begun to boil. Peter poured it into the cup until it was a few centimeters shy of full then grabbed a spoon and the bag of coffee.

"_I ain't speakin' to yew, missy," _Yondu's voice was darker than before.

Gamora didn't care. Peter didn't need to see her to know that she was livid.

He dropped a spoonful of the instant coffee into his mug and began stirring it in.

"If you wish to board this ship you will have to go through me first, Centaurian," apparently, neither did Drax. There was a creak as the enormous blue creature stood and glowered at his foe.

Peter took a sip of his cheap coffee. The tension behind him was so palpable he could almost feel it against his skin.

"What do you _want, _Yondu?" he sighed, finally turning around and giving his elder a dry look. He couldn't see the other ravagers but knew they were there, lurking just out of sight of the camera.

Yondu's expression wasn't really angry in appearance, but that didn't really mean anything. His gaze was calculating, examining Peter as though he thought he had something to hide. Which he did.

"_Son, you know exactly what I want."_

Images of the Infinity Stone passed through his head, of the day he saved Xandar and switched the capsules.

_["He is going to kill you."_

"_I know."]_

Peter weighed his options; on one hand he had three very capable sociopathic killers on his ship, on the other Yondu had _more._ Even if he didn't the scale still tilted towards his favor where artillery was involved; that old heap could easily blast his ship to pieces. He could try to make negotiations, yeah, but he knew better than anyone that Yondu was not to be trusted. No matter what he said or did that old Centaurian D'astard could hop on with as many witty plans and deadly weapons as he pleased. It certainly wasn't favorable that the head Ravager knew he was down with something. Hell, knowing him he was probably already aware of what it was.

"_Clock's ticking, boy."_

Peter took another sip of his coffee. The _Milano _was fast, though, even when she was low on fuel and they could probably escape if they tried.

He hummed thoughtfully for a moment, mapping out a path in his head that they could lose the Ravager ship on. They'd be pretty close to the Umero asteroid belt by now, wouldn't they?

"Alright," he finally said, stepping towards the holo, "How about we do this;" he stood in front of the screen and smiled cheekily up at his senior, "how about we go on ahead and leave you in our dust?"

"_Quill-!" _Yondu began, his face tightening with fury.

But Peter just raised his mug at him and gave a little wave, "Bye~"

And with a swipe of his hand he ended the transmission.

Funny thing though, Peter didn't know that 6 thrusters were still not working.

He also didn't know that Yondu _was right next to his ship. _

"You idiot," Rocket moaned.

Just before Peter could question him there was an enormous _boom_ below them.

"_Shit." _


	7. Recovery

_Disclaimer: I don't own GOTG_

* * *

_Boom. _

"Our _thrusters _are down?" Peter cried, almost dropping his mug, "Why didn't you tell me that!"

Offended, Rocket's fur bristled and his ears pulled back, "not like you gave me an opportunity, you idiot!"

_Crash. _

"We don't have time for this," Gamora interrupted, pushing through the bickering duo, "Drax, Rocket, with me. Peter, you stay here." Loading a plasma blaster she strode towards the door like a woman on a warpath.

"Now wait a min-" he began.

"Who the hell put you in charge," Rocket demanded, following after with a blaster as big as he was in his arms.

"Now hold on-" Peter tried again, only to be interrupted by Drax. The much larger man set a hand on his shoulder, instantly grabbing his attention.

"I apologize for this, Quill, but it is for your own benefit." In that instant the hair on the back of Peter's neck rose and just as he was realizing that a pressure point on the back of his head was wide open all consciousness fled.

* * *

"Dumb idjit," a familiar voice said, echoing in Peter's head, "he was askin' fo this, I tell ya."

Kraglin?

"I tell ya, if he just looked af'er himself like we taugh' 'im there'd be no problems. Dumb idjit."

There was a sigh and the sound of shuffling leathers. Peter knew who the room's other occupant was the moment he heard that soft humming sound. It'd become a herald of death over the years, if not that then at the very least some form of brutality.

"I'm thinking that yew might be asking for something yewrself," Yondu's voice was, as usual, a few political shades shy of menacing, "Now why don't yew stop yer babblin' and tell me what yew came to do!" It wasn't too terribly often that the old Centaurian had to threaten his crew, particularly loyal ones such as Kraglin. Something must have upset Peter's former guardian because this level of malevolence was never without reason.

"Righ'. We've got all three o' his buddies wrangled up nice n' tight, they ain't goin' nowhere. Coupla' the new boys tried to set up one o' tha' cells for Pete. Seems they're eager for a beat'n." There was a decisive clink from beside him, a faint sloshing sound not far behind.

"Yew go let 'em know, then, just how much of a beatn' I'll give 'em if they lay a hand on this here idjit or any o' his crew without my permission. Go ahead and slap 'em 'round yarself if ya need to." Peter could just imagine the wicked grin crawl across Kraglin's gazelle-like face before the sound of swishing clothing and a whooshing door signaled his departure. "Bunch a retards."

No longer occupied by the sound of conversation Peter took the opportunity to assess his newest predicament. From what he could gather of the softness beneath and around him he was back in bed again. A subtle intake of oxygen told him he was still aboard the _Milano, _where the air was clean and smelt less like sweat and blood. Of course, his head still hurt like crazy- a little more now that Drax had messed with it. There wasn't even anything in the room to provoke it and it was pounding away as though to make up for lost there was something pleasantly warm cushioning the back of his head. Contrasting, his forehead felt clammy and cool.

In the heap of silence, Yondu sighed, leaning back in his creaky chair. It was at this moment, when things began to get uncomfortable, that Peter noticed a peculiar stinging sensation in the crook of his arm.

A very distinct stinging sensation. Like two metal incisors had been pressed through his flesh, into the vein beneath, and injected him with something.

"You bastard, what didya do to me?" he groaned slowly, his too-dry throat convulsing in protest.

"Drugged yew up, boy," came Yondu's honest answer, "keep ya from tryna' go anywhere."

The blond grimaced and tried to convince his rubbery arms to move without success, "clearly," he grumbled, "what I mean is; what are you _going _to do?" There was once a time in his life that Peter had been convinced Yondu was his father. And who would blame him? The Centaurian trained him, kept him fed, clothed, and healthy for years. He'd pat him on the back when he did something good and slap him when he did something wrong. For almost 18 years of his life, Peter had been kept alive out in this crazy galaxy through Yondu's efforts. But at the same time, that did not make the older Centaurian _gentle. _His training was brutal. Half the time the young Quill ended up in the infirmary was because his mentor-of-the-day decided to get a little rougher than usual. As a kid he wasn't allowed to be picky, if he was he wouldn't be fed anything at all. Should he have been injured any amount of complaining was free to be punished. And god forbid the times he got _sick _with something.

Yondu wasn't the type to get attached to anything and Peter doubted he would have any reservations about killing him or his comrades.

"To the freakshow yew call a team? Nothing," his elder rasped, much to his disbelief. There was a strange rattling sound followed by a pop, like a cork out of a bottle. It was getting a little harder to stay awake now, but Peter went ahead and opened his eyes anyway. "As for yew," the blurry blotch above him that he assumed was Yondu continued, "well, there ain't much point in kickin' a man down when he's already on the ground, now is there?" The blur above him moved, tilting what looked like a green cylinder over and slapping it against his palm. Several white things inside rattled about, a few falling into Yondu's open hand. That's when Peter realized they were pills. Closing his fist the lead Ravager set the bottle down on the nightstand and reached for something.

"It was a strange choice yew made, thinking yew could keep us outta here like that." And Peter thought to himself; _Well, here we go. This is it. This is where he finally kills me. Time for me to pass on and start a new show, harass new people, and hope that those I leave behind have the best of what's left in their lives. _He prepared himself, ready to feel calloused fingers pries his mouth open and force the poisonous pill down his throat. A weak glare showed Yondu the feeling of hatred was mutual. "Oh don't you go givin' me that look, boy," said the Ravager and Peter's hazy gaze settled on the glass of water held in his other hand, "if I was about to kill ya I sure as hell wouldn't be tryna' poison yew. That's not how the Ravagers play."

"So what," Peter rasped, trying not to let his eyes close, lashes fluttering, "you're-" He wasn't given any time to complete the sentence as the pill was jammed between his teeth. The blonde would have spat it out but Yondu had pushed it so far back that it was a reflexive move to swallow it. The pill stung the back of his throat like a hot burn, making the already paper-dry flesh feel like it was flaking.

The sensation was so distinctive it hardly took Peter, even in his sleepy daze, more than a moment to recognize it.

It was a painkiller.

And a hardcore one at that.

"Oh, you damn coprolite," he choked out.* Yondu promptly smacked him on the forehead.

"I ain't yewr damn mother, son!" he barked, ignoring the responding groan of pain, "I'm just looking after my cargo- ain't yew ever gonna stop _bein' _cargo either." A metaphorical chain wrapped around Peter's neck but at this stage in his life he was too used to it to feel choked. In some strange, twisted sort of way this was Yondu's way of showing that he cared.

Kind of.

Maybe.

He'd never really know for sure.

Peter didn't have much time to think it over as a far more brutal grogginess took over him. It was rabid and unforgiving, tearing his consciousness away like it was no stronger than wet sand. For several moments he completely forgot that Yondu was there, only reminded of his presence when something cold and smooth was pressed against his lips.

"Drink this before ya kill yarself," came the aggressive remark. With little time to be prepared for it, cool water was poured into his mouth. Even if Yondu had been gentle about it Peter would have drunk the entire glass in seconds. It soothed his throat like fresh aloe to a second degree burn.

As the remainder of his awareness left him, Peter felt the pad behind his head shift- presumably as Yondu fiddled with it.

"You're gunna hold this over my head till the day I die, aren't you?" Peter heard himself mutter.

"Well yeah," came the faint reply, "the 'eating you' thing clearly got too old."

* * *

When Peter woke up Yondu was long gone and Drax was just about to lift him up. He was fine, obviously, but Gamora absolutely refused to accept that and threatened to drag his unconscious body off to the Dedarian hospital herself if she had to. It didn't help that she had Rocket's full support- using his weapon of choice to persuade Peter that now was a _very good time to start listening._

Drax had wanted to carry him but that was something the reputable StarLord refused on pain of death. As it was he barely allowed Gamora to (needlessly) support him, acting as a crutch from the docking bay all the way to the hospital. Along the way he asked them about the Ravagers and for a long time no-one said a thing, apparently still simmering over their defeat.

"They are more skilled than I had thought them to be," Drax had reluctantly admitted, "but they would not have taken us down if not for their numbers."

"Yondu and his crazy group were on the ship for about an hour before they left, with no warning whatsoever. When we found you in your room we thought he'd put you into some sort of coma 'cause you refused to wake up." Rocket had grumbled, lifting his plasma cannon a little higher and huffing distastefully. Peter chose not to mention the three hours of undisturbed rest he'd had in the last three days before Yondu arrived and put him out of his misery.

When they arrived at the hospital and the Dedarian doctor had his look at Peter he, of course, found nothing wrong with him. He even showed the charts to his patient's comrades to prove to them that even if something had been wrong before, _there wasn't now. _

As it turned out, _Peter_ was dragged into the hospital but came out dragging his _friends_ through the door with a bottle of pills rattling in his pocket. It took a little while after to convince them all that; "headaches and migraines _happen._ Quite often, in fact. 90% of Terrans get them and rarely are they systemic to something serious. _Calm down. I'm fine._"

Nevertheless, from then on, all it took to dispel a fight was the phrase; "Damnit all, you're giving me a headache!" and everyone suddenly acted like angels.

Given the frequency of this, Peter couldn't decide if it was a good thing or not.

He ended up deciding that Groot was his favorite though, because all he ever said was; _"I am Groot." _

**End.**

* * *

_*Coprolite: A fossilized turd._

_Well there you go, a happy ending for everyone. Thanks so much to those of you who followed, favorited, and/or reviewed! I'll be going through each and every one of your comments!_

_On a side note, for all those people who said they wanted _**life-or-death whump**_ [basically all but 3 of you] keep a look out because I'm going to upload that. Not sure if it will be multi-chaptered or just a one-shot yet though. Keep an eye out over these next few days because I'm going to have something come up shortly. _

_It's going to be called: _Morphalite Syndrome


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